Plush kitsch is still kitsch

Sure, I grant Joseph Von Sternberg his due -- as a creator of grand, exquisitely lit recreations of fantasy worlds in which Marlene Dietrich scabrously glowered. As much as I adore The Blue Angel, Morocco, and The Scarlet Empress, I can't quite endorse Graham Fuller's claim that Sternberg reveals "cold, cruel truths about love," especially when the cold cruel truth is that, with the exceptions of Gary Cooper and Emil Jannings, her leading men were sticky wickets like Clive Brook (and, sadly, the young Cary Grant) for whom love was as irritating as a warm gin and tonic. Of course, as if to compensate, the cocoons in which Sternberg encased Dietrich became increasingly elaborate. I'm reminded of Orson Welles' demurral in that book of interviews he composed with Peter Bogdanovich: "He had a perfect, really an immense visual command, over what is finally kitsch" (Bogdanovich's ascot wrinkled defensively, no doubt). I'm uncomfortable with granting kitsch a value beyond itself, even when it's as plush and intoxicating as Sternberg's.